


The One I Left Behind

by MaryaDmitrievnaLikesSundays



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers, StarKid Productions RPF, Tin Can Brothers RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Cold War, Crushes, Fluff and Angst, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Major Character Injury, Multi, Mutual Pining, Pain, Pining, Secret Crush, Slow Burn, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-09-06 09:15:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20289064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryaDmitrievnaLikesSundays/pseuds/MaryaDmitrievnaLikesSundays
Summary: Agent Curt Mega had always liked British accents.After 1954, he liked them a hell of a lot more.After 1963, he liked them much, much less.——Or, Curt and Owen’s romance from the first time they met to the last.





	The One I Left Behind

Curt was ecstatic. His first day leading a team and Cynthia had trusted him with an entire squad. They were supposed to bust some weird dog killing cult, Curt wasn’t sure. He hadn’t really been listening to the briefing. He had been in his head, trying to gage which flips would look the coolest when he jumped into a getaway car.

He slunk through the courtyard, sliding through the shadows and hiding from the moonlight. The concrete floor was hard beneath his feet, the sharp stench of metal stinging his nose. He crouched behind a metal half-wall, his men following his lead. He motioned for them to go left with two fingers, keeping his eyes on the catwalks above them, which were silent and still. For now.

He waited until he heard the quiet thundering of his team’s footsteps fade into silence, then peeked his head out from the side of the wall. He scanned his surroundings, mainly concrete buildings and broken glass. A glint of moonlight on metal caught his eye; the lock on the cellar door was weak, weak enough to break from the outside with minimal noise. He fistbumped himself around his pistol.

He scurried away from the wall and began crossing the courtyard, a skip in his step and a gun in his hand. He liked to think the two were associated.

And sure, maybe he got too cocky, lifting his unauthorized flask to his lips. But he was Special Agent Curt Mega, right? What was the worst that could happen?

He kicked a rock across the courtyard as he tried to screw the top back on and skidded into the shadows. With his eyes on the path the rock had taken, he tripped over an unseen crack in the concrete. He caught himself, but dropped the metal cap. He froze as a clang echoed throughout the courtyard, loud as a bomb. 

“Intruder!” yelled someone from above him. He ducked behind a large metal barrel.

Gunshots rang out all around him. It sounded like the world was exploding, pops and bangs and everything in between. The barrel shook and men shouted. His breaths were heavy, each one anticipating its abrupt end. He scrunched his eyes shut, just waiting for it to _end_.

The courtyard slowly descended back into silence. Hundreds of rhythmic footsteps pounded away, men shouting through thick accents about finding any others. Panting and trembling, Curt crawled out from behind his barrel and dared to look at the ground in front of him.

Bodies. Seventeen bodies, seventeen men. Every single person he had vowed to protect was dead.

“Holy shit,” he whispered to himself. “I just—they’re—holy _shit_.”

Curt threaded his hands through his hair, pulling harshly and relishing in the burn he felt spread across his scalp. The dark world seemed to swim before him, and he stood as if he weren’t in control, taking one step on legs of jelly, then two. Was he in sight? In line of bullets? Did he care?

A hand grabbed his elbow, clamping over the thick polyester covering his arm. He gasped as he was yanked back into the shadows. He yelped, and another hand clapped over his mouth. It carried the scene of smoke and cheap hair gel, which he recognized because he used the same kind. His back was pressed into someone else’s chest, the owner of the hands, and he dug his heels into the ground in a futile attempt to get away. He couldn’t reach his gun from here, and he’d never felt so vulnerable in his life.

He was dragged behind a corner and abruptly shoved against the opposite wall. He scrambled to his feet, fists flying and connecting with only air as the world swirled and blurred around him.

”Hey, calm down there,” said a deep voice, lost in a heavy British accent. 

Curt started and finally focused his eyes, a tall form sharpening before him. Breathing heavily, Curt took stock of perfectly gelled hair and small lumps on his clothes that Curt could already tell were guns. His sharply pressed shirt gave off the look of a desk-job manager, but the rips at the knees of his pants betrayed his otherwise put-together look. And he felt something akin to jealousy at the glimpse of chest he saw, the shirt hanging loose, a ripped off button at fault.

”Who the hell are you?” Curt panted.

The unusually beautiful man smiled. Curt told himself the heat rising in his face was just a late reaction to fear. “I’ll tell you if you promise not to punch me.”

”How do I know you’re for real?”

”I just saved your sorry ass from a line of bullets. If I’d wanted you dead, I would have let the Soviets do it for me.”

”Yeah? Or what if you just wanted to take me for yourself?”

The man groaned. “Alright, just—here, look.” He reaches into his pocket, pulled out a gun. Fast as lightning, Curt’s fists were back on level with his face. He was ready to run when the man opened his hand and dropped his gun. It fell to the floor with a clatter so loud Curt cringed.

Then he removed another.

And another.

And another until he formed a small pile of various firearms and knives. “Look,” he said, nudging one with his foot. “All out in the open. You can take one, if you’d like.”

Curt eyes the man, then the pile. He quickly bent down and snatched the nearest pistol. He fumbled with the grip before clicking the safety off and pointing it at the man before him, who held calm eye contact, his hands in the air.

Curt licked his lips. “What is your name?”

The man chuckled, and Curt almost dropped the gun. “Wow, you don’t like to play, do you?” Curt didn’t laugh. “I’m Owen Carvour, British Special Agent. I tend to go my own way too, though, if you know what I mean.”

Curt furrowed his brow. He couldn’t imagine ever leaving the Americans like this man—Owen—implied he had done to his own country. Weren’t they supposed to Be allies?

”You’re judging me.”

Curt cocked his head. “What?”

”You’re judging me. For not always being loyal.”

Curt scoffed. “Well, yeah. You’re a British spy. Who do you think you work for?”

Owen shrugged. “I work for my beliefs. Just so happens most of them align with the other Brits’.”

”Jesus Christ,” sneered Curt, making no attempt to hide his disgust.

Owen focused on Curt’s eyes, sharp and cutting. For some reason, Curt felt nervous. He pretended he didn’t. “You’re new to the game, aren’t you?” Asked Owen.

Curt nodded slowly.

”Thought so.” Owen stretched, slowly packing his firearms back into their secret pockets. “Curt, there will come a day when something dire is happening, and the Americans won’t make the best choice. And in that moment, you will have a choice of your own: you will either do what you are told and let a hundred lives crumble, or you will do what you know to be right. For everyone’s sake, I hope you make the best choice.”

Owen zipped his jacket back up and extended his hand. “Right, then. Lovely meeting you. I hope to see you again one day...”

Curt grabbed his hand and shook it once, hoping he wouldn’t feel the slick layer of sweat. ”Curt,” he provided. “And, uh, you too.”

Owen held his gaze just a moment longer, and Curt was finding it hard to breathe. Then, he turned and started down the hallway. “Best to go a level down when you leave. They won’t find you there.”

Curt nodded, blinking at the floor. Then, he remembered the cold metal in his hand. “Wait!” He called. “Don’t you want your gun back?”

”Keep it!” Owen replied, turning a corner. “I doubt you’ll make it with just those fists!”

Then, the odd British man was gone, and Curt was left in the darkness. He checked his clip; only three bullets left. He swore.

This would be a lot to pull off. But if he did, maybe it would prove to Cynthia that he hadn’t screwed everything up.

He wrenched open the door to the stairwell, gun in hand, and descended.


End file.
